Friday, March 31, 2006

My body lies over 8th and Ocean

In a place where art deco buildings line the busy streets, sandy beaches and blue water wash over a vast majority of land, and beautiful people cover everything in between, two groups of young people are trying to make it big in the cutthroat world of modelling.

Watching over these model hopefuls is Irene Marie, a 200-year-old creature who manages to express no emotion when emoting an expression. Her soul may not live on when she passes (if she passes), but her body will be preserved for another thousand years.

Each passing day has castings and photoshoots that the models must attend, for fear of reprisal from the plasti-Queen. Some models want to be rich and famous, while others already believe they are.

There are bitchy words and bitchy people. There are temper tantrums reminiscent of Naomi Campbell’s. There is more attitude that you can shake a stick at – and these models know what sticks look like, since they resemble them after not being fed in weeks.

These stories are fantasies.

They’re stupid. They’re ridiculous. They’re preposterous.

And they’re so addictive.

Catch out 8th and Ocean, MTV’s new "reality" series about the world of modelling in Miami.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Shitty songs of the 21st century

Each week on American Idol, contestants have to learn a new song from a particular time in the last century that exemplifies a certain style of music - modelled after the time, the writers, or the singers.

Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. George and Ira Gershwin. The Motown catalogue. The soul of Stevie Wonder. The schlock of Barry Manilow.

On last week’s episode, they announced the contestants would select songs from the 21st century. I don’t know if it’s just me, but the naughts haven’t really developed a strong musical identity. They’re as schizophrenic as Courtney Love coming down from a drug-induced high.

Hip-hop. Country. The fall of pop. The rise of personality-free wuss-rock.

This week's selections of the contestants may prove the 21st century will be known as the decade of shitty music…

Skinny black girl – Because of you. Beautiful song. Because of you... I'm ashamed of my life because I picked a song that I couldn't sing.

Blonde white hick girl – Country hick song. You lost your man, your house and your dog. We lost our mind.

Jake Gyllenhaal Jr. – Drops of Jupiter. Those are actually tears, JGJ. Tears from your adoring fans realizing you chose a suck-ass song. Oh, and keep your shirt on, 'cause Paula will pounce and release the cougar within if you give her any reason to.

Old young guy – Trouble. When I heard you were singing Trouble, I thought of the Pink version with the western thing going on. Kick ass. Then you sang something else. Oh well, I guess you are in trouble.

Big black girl, big black voice – Shackles (praise you). The song makes you want to convert. The louder you sing, the more Jesus can hear you. And Jesus ain't deaf.

Live’s replacement singer – What if. What if I didn't barf in my mouth a little after hearing you chose a song by Creed? What if you actually sang a song that sounded different from every other song you sang, week after week?

Kelly Clarkson Jr. – The voice within. Out of all the diva songs out there, you chose this one. Aren’t there tons of vocal-gymnastic-challenging songs out there? Oh wait, there aren’t.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Better than Botox

Whether it’s the cosmetics or entertainment industry, the image of the unlined face is the current beauty norm for women (and some men).

All you need is a pointy needle coming towards your face, filled with a botulism toxin, able to paralyze your facial muscles (and take down a wild rhino). A couple of jabs here and there, a few drops of blood and you’re done.

Presto! No wrinkles.

It’s a scary thought that people would go though that to appear younger. It’s something that can make you confused and want to furrow your brow. But, you can’t, since your facial muscles are immobilized.

Recently, I found a better way to achieve the same result.

For free.

Yes, free.

It’s fabulous!

It’s fantastic!

It’s frostbite!

That’s right, frostbite.

With Canadian winters being cold, there is always a chance of being stuck outside during a windy day. Windchill can alter the temperature by 10 degrees (or more), making a trip to hell feel like welcome respite to the bitter cold.

But, you still have to go out, go to work, run errands, and lock your kids out of your house. When that happens, the wind takes a hold of your skin, freezes it, removes any traces of moisture, and pulls it back a few centimetes.

It’s a whole new you.

For free!

Unfortunately, the numbing side-effect can be detrimental, especially when you can lose a limb.

Friday, March 24, 2006

More than a handful is a waste

Victoria Beckham, former Spice Girl and current wife of soccer star David Beckham, once told a reporter that her husband loves her small breasts since David thought “more than a handful is a waste.”

So what does David think of her breasts since she upgraded her cumquats to grapefruits?

I wouldn’t know what his answer would be, although I can certainly assume he’s keeping mum on the whole subject.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about the situation.

Unless, of course, it’s about me.

**

One day, while at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, my sister comes up behind me and squeezes my cheeks.

I almost drop a plate.

“You know, your bum feels a little bigger now. What have you been doing?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“Really? It must be because you’re eating more.”

“That must be it. Whatever I eat, it goes straight to my ass…”

“You know, before you hardly had anything. Now, you can at least grab something…”

**

When I was working crazy hours, I hardly had enough time to eat. Correction, I wasn’t allowed to eat. If I ever placed a fork near my mouth, someone would show up at my desk and wonder why I was eating and not working.

This occurred so often, I became paranoid and started sneaking off when others weren’t looking. I made myself invisible. It was like Anne Frank's family stuck in the attic. If they made any noise, they’d be discovered and killed.

Oh, yeah, right… They were.

Now that I am back to a regular schedule, I have packed on those pounds that I lost, and it seems, most of them went to south of the border, down Mexico way.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Tranny get your gun

No matter what your level of expertise in an organization, whenever a large responsibility is put on your plate, you have the chance to make a big mess or lick the plate clean.

I choose to put my tongue into practice.

After a few days of non-stop scheduling, the list of interviews has been set up. Things are settled. Everything is as close to perfect as possible. My manager is on site with the interviewee and there hasn't been a problem.

Then comes the phone call.

"Hi."

"How are the interviews going?"

"Well... The magazine interview was cancelled."

"What do you mean, cancelled? What happened?" Shit. Shit. Shit. What did I do?

"We arrived at their offices greeting us was the person doing the interview... A transsexual, standing in front of - the only way I can describe it as - a soft-core, life-size photo of herself."

Oh God.

"And that's not the worst of it. She, and I guess I'll call her a she, wanted a one-on-one interview with the interviewee and didn't want anyone in the room with them. She said it would compromise her journalistic integrity. Journalistic integrity? Can you believe that?"

"Uh. Hmmm."

"So we said the interview is off and we left."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." I'm getting fired when she returns to the office.

"It wasn't your fault. But, I do want to warn you, if you get a call from these people, ranting and raving, just keep cool and tell them that's the way things are done."

"Thanks. But, I am sorry."

"Don't worry about it. We have to get to anther interview. See you at the office around 3 p.m."

The call ends and I begin to worry. I have failed. Not only do I worry about my supervisor being unimpressed with my scheduling and (apparently, non-existent) research skills, but also of a tranny on a potentially violent rampage.

Why do these embarrassing things happen to me? And why can't they be normal, embarrassing things, like ripping my pants before a meeting, or stepping in a fresh pile of dog shit?

Why should I be the only person to have an integrity-deprived, tranny journalist after them?

Monday, March 20, 2006

Because I can

In My Life, the memoirs of former President of the United States, Bill Clinton, there were a few pages devoted to his (sexual) relationship with former intern, Monica Lewinsky.

Heading to the point (pun intended), the reason he gave why he had this affair was simple: because he could.

It was his position of power that allowed him to let an impressionable (and incredibly naïve) girl to get down on her knees and spit polish the Presidential knob.

Although I am not Bill Clinton, I do understand his position. And, no, I am not talking about having someone hunched over my lap, practicing oral citations.

What I’m referring to is being in a position of (relative) power.

Due to my current employment situation, I now can do one thing that I was never able to do when I was “competing” for a position with the company: I can say no.

Why? Because I can.

Whenever there were jobs that others didn’t want to complete, or didn’t have time to complete, it was my job to smile, nod and say I have all the time in the world to do their work. Pretty much, it’s the life of every junior employee.

Now, on the other hand, when someone asks me to do something I don’t want to do, I say no. This can be from doing their work, to agreeing on a position that someone believes is the right answer (it usually isn’t).

It may be hallow in the overall picture of my employment situation, but that feeling of power – however relative it is - is indescribable.

I’ve got them by the balls, although for once, I’d rather have that situation reversed.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

White boys are the new black men

Music trends tend to come and go with the season. The radio can be playing the twangs of country music one minute and switch to the resurgance of the jazz era another.

But, one kind of trend that never seems to go out of style is that of the white boy trying to be the new black man. Unfortunately, it's hardly ever successful (and Justin Timberlake doesn't count because no one in their right mind will ever believe he's the second coming of Marvin Gaye and Teddy Pendergrass).

Watching the past few episodes of the current season of American Idol, I’ve noticed the vocal stylings of quite a few young men who think there lurks a little soul inside of them.

In all realities, this season's top 12 has only one soul singer, one old soul and one soulless impostor.

Elliott Yamin is a true soul singer. Close your eyes and listen to his tone, his runs and his turns of phrase. You're transported back to the days of Stevie. Open your eyes and you realize he needs a good set of veneers, otoplastic surgery, a spray tan and some styish new clothes (burn those sweater-vests).

Taylor Hicks is an old soul. The man-boy looks like Michael McDowell (without the beard) and sounds like him, too. And, the man-boy feels his music, he’s not just singing to the tunes. But first, I want to see his driver’s license.

Ace Young is a soulless imposter. Looking like Jake Gyllenhall and smouldering into the camera doesn’t mean you can sing (paging Mr. Guarini… Mr. Guarini?). Selecting songs by George Michael, Daniel Beddingfield and Michael Jackson – all white soul singers – doesn’t mean that you are a soul singer. You have a good tone, but that's it. And, please, don’t do a falsetto. Your notes were so sharp, I could cut a porter house steak with them.

But, it doesn’t matter what I think.

Since the advent of music channels, a singer's image is just as important as a singer's voice. Maybe it doesn't matter if you can sing, but if you look the part. Two of this season's contestants can really sing, but don't look the part. One can't really sing, but has the image down pat.

But, who knows?

Maybe people will remember they listen to singers on the radio (or iPod), and not always on television.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Awww, spit

The train is coming to its final stop. The passengers awake from their slumber, rise from their seats, and form a line towards the exit. There is little eye contact. The experience is akin to travelling in an elevator: everyone looks straight ahead.

Since this was a long day for me, I have yawned for the past twenty minutes, or so. In fact, I can’t stop yawning. It’s like a perpetual motion machine.

When I feel a yawn coming on, I tilt my head down, put my hand in front of my mouth, open my mouth to the degree that it can swallow a dingo, get a case of lock-jaw, panic, slam my jaw back and up into position with the palm of my hand, stifle a yelp and a few tears, close my mouth and place my hand back down at my side.

The train is taking hours to come to a stop, when in reality it’s only a few minutes. The rocking motion is lulling me back to sleep and I feel another yawn coming on. Yes. Yes, it’s coming. No, wait. Wait. No, it’s not. No. False alarm.

Oh, God, no.

Fuck, here it comes.

Without having the time to put my hand in front of my mouth, I yawn. It isn’t a large one. I’ve had bigger.

But, before I close my mouth, something happens.

A fine mist sprays out of the corner of my mouth and onto the woman in front of me. Tiny droplets of my saliva are embedded in her hair and a few fall on the back of her jacket. It looks like hairspray, only in reality, it’s mouthspray.

I am mortified.

I open my eyes wide, exemplifying shock.

I look up to see if anyone saw my nouveau display of one-sided swapping spit. Two passengers facing me saw the whole thing. Their expressions are those of disgust.

To hide the fact that I am guilty as sin, I stare at the doors, praying they’ll open.

Please, God, I beg, don’t let her turn around. Just open the fucking doors as fast as you possibly can.

The train comes to a stop and it pauses. I start to sweat. I’m waiting for those heathens to tell the other passenger that I (accidentally) orally misted her.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Tip your server

Inevitably, there will be a time when you’re running around, doing errands, and realize you haven’t eaten for what seems like days. Since dropping off your bags in the car and speeding off home is a waste of time, you schlep your purchases with you to the nearest place that serves hot food that will energize you for another few hours of mindless spending.

Interestingly enough, even though you’re starving, you’re still selective in the process.

So, what makes you walk in through the doors?

Is it the menu? The décor? The hot servers that forget your water, screw up your (simple) order and then get pissy when you tip them appropriately for their shitty service?

One, some, or none of the above?

Come to think of it, I find the aforementioned situation very similar to surfing the Net.